


Fredas, 3 a.m.

by ilcuoreardendo



Series: Pushing Boundaries [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, High King Ulfric, Jastia's everyone's mother, Matchmaking, Pursued and Pursuer, Romance, Slow Burn, The Moot, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11070087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilcuoreardendo/pseuds/ilcuoreardendo
Summary: A direct followup to Pushing Boundaries.“She seems to think you need taking care of.”“She seems,” Seirian said, “to think she's everyone's mother. You should see her, lecturing Drevis on not using his invisibility spells inside. Or her attempts to matchmake Brelyna with the blacksmith.”“Attempting to get your noses out of your books and married off, is she?”“I believe she thinks it's her duty,” Seirian said, pulling the stopper and pouring the wine.“Will I have her to thank when you finally say yes?”





	Fredas, 3 a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like I'm writing a Harlequin Romance. Hm. I have no idea if this will go anywhere from here, but I figured I'd post it. (As an aside, I welcome prompts at my [Tumblr](http://ilcuoreardendo-fic.tumblr.com) if you have any requests in this universe.)
> 
> Changes to the College of Winterhold in this story are from the [Winterhold College Improved mod](https://steamcommunity.com/sharedfiles/filedetails/?id=75079383). It definitely makes the Archmage quarters a lot cozier. And that's partly what inspired this ficlet.

* * *

  
3 a.m. and the College was quiet, save for the occasional faint explosion coming from the Emporium below. Some student practicing a new spell as they grabbed a late night snack or a drink. Seirian hoped whatever spell it was didn't affect the library in any way. Urag would have their heads.

Rising from the table she'd spread her books out on hours ago, she closed the volumes and took them back to the shelf sitting catty corner to the stairs, shoving them unceremoniously in with their fellows. She'd been certain she had something on using armor spells as an additional means of cloaking one's self from the elements, but damned if she could find it.

She was on all fours on the floor, looking through the books in the depths of the bottom shelf, when someone spoke.

“Now that's a sight I wouldn't mind seeing more often.”

“Sweet Azura! Ow!” Seirian, rubbing the temple she'd banged against the bookcase with one hand and clutching a book to her chest with the other, got to her feet. “Ulfric?”

The soon to be High King of Skyrim stood at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, wearing a satisfied smile on his face. “All right, Dragonborn?” His tone was teasing.

“It takes harder hits to make an impression,” Seirian muttered, laying the book on a nearby table and eyeing her guest. “What are you doing here?”

“I had a meeting with Korir. He had some concerns before the Moot.”

“Yes. But what are you doing _here_?”

“I haven’t been to the College in ages,” he said, pushing off the wall and strolling further into her chambers, gaze sweeping across the bookcases, the tables littered with parchment and fragments of soul gems, the display cases full of enchanted items, from daggers to jewelry to bows. He drew close to the garden, reaching for one of the Magelights that hovered permanently over the foliage, lighting up the flowers, making the mushrooms glisten. It shivered at his touch. “It seemed time to correct that oversight.”

“At three in the morning?”

“I've also heard the College's cuisine is not to be missed.”  
  
“That depends on who's at the hearth,” Seirian said, closing her eyes, giving a yawn and a stretch that cracked the length of her back. When she opened her eyes, Ulfric had turned from running his fingers through the Magelight and was watching her. There was something in his demeanor that made her flush warm. “I suppose this is your roundabout way of telling me you'd like dinner?”

“An excellent idea. Would you join me?”

“You stay here,” she said. The last thing she needed was the gossip mill talking about a late night dinner between the Arch Mage and the future High King. “I’ll fetch something.”

The Emporium always kept late hours on Fredas night. Students were up late working on projects, teachers did late night grading over an ale or sat together to discuss who the promising students were in their classes and which ones to look out for, lest they set themselves on fire or turn themselves accidentally invisible or worse.

As Seirian entered the emporium, she saw Brelyna at a far table, bent over a pile of written assignments. The Dark Elf gave her a quick wave and mimed a faint, hand to forehead, before she returned to her papers.  
  
Jastia was at the hearth tonight. When she saw Seirian approach, she placed a basket on the counter, filled with fresh bread, thinly sliced venison, a small wheel of sharp cheese, cored apples heated and filled with butter, sugar and cinnamon and a bottle of wine.  
  
“The Jarl requested it before he went up, Archmage.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. Seemed pretty certain you'd forgotten to eat.” Jastia winked. “Looks like he's been paying attention. How many times have I told you not to get so lost in your books? You've lost even more weight. What, between the dragon business and then the war and it's not like you could afford to lose much as it was. And if you—“

“Thank you, Jastia,” Seirian said, feeling pressure building between her eyes. The woman would go on if Seirian let her. She'd become something of a surrogate mother in Seirian's time at the College, particularly after she'd taken over as Archmage.

“Well, you just take that up and enjoy, Archmage. And you tell your young man he has my compliments for looking after you.”

Seirian was pretty sure Jastia only had 10 years on Ulfric, at most, but she just said, “Thank you, Jastia. I shall,” and scooped up the basket, making for her quarters before the woman could launch into one of her lectures on marriage and finding a good Nord husband to keep Seirian warm at night because, Divines knew, Skyrim's climate was a harsh experience for a Breton.

“You seem to have won over Jastia,” Seirian said when she returned to her quarters and the table Ulfric had obligingly set for two.

“She seems to think you need taking care of.”

“She seems,” Seirian said, “to think she's everyone's mother. You should see her, lecturing Drevis on not using his invisibility spells inside. Or her attempts to matchmake Brelyna with the blacksmith.”

“Attempting to get your noses out of your books and married off, is she?”  
  
“I believe she thinks it's her duty,” Seirian said, pulling the stopper and pouring the wine.

“Will I have her to thank when you finally say yes?”  
  
Seirian blinked twice, picked up her goblet and drained it before slicing into the bread and piling a piece with meat and cheese which she offered to Ulfric who took it, a slow grin spreading across his face. Seirian vaguely recalled reading about an old Nord tradition of a wife offering her husband the first portion of any meal they partook together. She shoved a piece of bread in her mouth and sat back to chew on it while watching the fire.

Silence descended as they ate, heavy and wine sweetened, until Ulfric leaned back in his chair, observing her, blank faced and asked “Why did you leave Windhelm so suddenly?'

Seirian, now pleasantly full, tired from a day spent bending over her books, warm with wine and the heat of the hearth, blinked drowsily as she grasped for words. “Reasons,” she said.

“Yes,” Ulfric's voice was amused. “I imagine so.”

“Extenuating circumstances. I had things to take care of here.” _And I was starting to get a very strange feeling in the pit of my belly when you looked at me a certain way._

Ulfric turned in his chair so he could face her fully, watching her with half-lidded eyes.

_Yes! That way. Just like that._

And….

_Did I say all that aloud?_

“I think,” Seirian started slowly, “I’ve had too much wine.”

“Oh, on the contrary. I think you’ve had just enough. I never put much stock in that old saying that in wine you find yourself, but it seems it holds true for you, my Dragonborn.”  
  
“You should go,” Seirian said again after a moment. “And I should go to bed.” She rose, but a hand on her wrist propelled her around the table and she came to be seated on Ulfric's lap which, she thought, was far more comfortable than it ought to be.

He held her firmly, but kept some space between their bodies, though that made his nearness, when he leaned forward to speak into her ear, all the more visceral.  
  
“Stay. Speak to me. You're always running away and I want to know why.”

Seirian made an unintelligible sound.  
  
“No. What is it you've been saying to me? That clear communication among all parties is—”

“The only way to achieve progress. I could _fus roh dah_ myself for that.”

He bucked his knee under her and she jolted, glared at him. Ulfric smirked but didn't loosen his grip, stroking one hand over her lower arm, her palm, her fingers and back up, making her shiver. His arm tightened around her.

“Tell me to let you go, Dragonborn. And I will.”

“I don't want to,” she said at last, on a sigh.

Behind her, Ulfric breathed out unsteadily and she felt a tension in him release at her confession. The game of tug-of-war they'd been playing for months finally coming to a draw.

“Well, I'd call that progress,” he murmured and turned her on his lap, one hand staying on her hip, the other coming up to cup the back of her head and pull her toward him.

His mouth was warm and firm and tasted of spiced wine and apple. His beard tickled the sensitive skin around her mouth and sent shivers down her spine, even as his hands moved and grasped her hips, holding her firmly to him, so that she could feel the heat and length of him beneath her.

“I would have you tonight,” Ulfric said as they broke apart. He leaned his forehead against hers. “But I think you're not ready yet.”

“No....” Seirian admitted, licking her lips and rising from his lap, putting some space between them. She applied herself to the useless business of tidying up from their meal as Ulfric gathered his cloak, before giving up and crossing to him at the entrance to her quarters.

Ulfric had been quite clear over the last month about what he wanted from her and she…. She wasn't…quite sure what to do with that information. Brelyna had once teased her about being more practiced in magic than men and she wasn't far from the truth. Corentin had been a long time ago, before she'd gotten it into her head to leave the warmth and sea-scented home she had in Daggerfall to come north.

“And I'm not sure,” Ulfric continued, drawing his cloak over his shoulders and coming close to her, “that I want to push the bounds of propriety. I'm certain there's already quite enough gossip on my coming to your quarters at this hour. I can only offer this as a reprieve: I'll be sure someone sees me leaving through the front door.”  
  
Seirian scoffs a laugh and sends him an arch look. “Not wanting to field rumors of your spending the night in the Arch Mage's bed.”

“Not until that rumor is accompanied by one that says the Arch Mage is to be my wife.”

“Give you an inch,” Seirian said, something in her stomach turning amidst the meal and the wine.

“And I'll take the field. Kiss me again.”

And she did, this time pulling him down to her by the edges of his cloak. She met his kiss with a wisp of tongue and the edge of teeth, drew her fingers up the line of his throat and let a weak stream of energy flow there, sparks lighting along his skin, making him gasp and then chuckle. When he drew away his eyes were dark.

“You continue to surprise me.” He tilted his head. “And yourself, I think.”

“I have my moments of impulse.”

“Then I’ll take my leave before they get the best of you. Goodnight. My Dragonborn.”

He turned on his heel and left, scent of spiced wine and cold fur from his damp cloak hanging in the air. Seirian listened as his tread faded away and when the door closed, she left the mess of dinner things on the table and flopped onto her bed sideways, staring at the fire borne shadows dancing along the walls. Shadowmancy had never been her strong suit and she had trouble discerning patterns for a question, unless the outcome was fairly certain.

As she slipped into sleep, the fire and the wine and the memory of company warming her, the shadowed impression of a crown flickered behind her closed eyes.

 

 

 

 


End file.
